


The Black Curse of Cromwell

by magelette



Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magelette/pseuds/magelette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan thought no one would notice his absence. Except his mam pays more attention than he thinks... Set between "Wizards at War" and "A Wizard of Mars."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Curse of Cromwell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NightsMistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightsMistress/gifts).



You’re quiet these days. You remind me of your dad when you’re in these silent states. Instead of letting your rage loose the way you usually do, you stand there and simmer with those dark, dark eyes of yours. I know that your teenage years hit you hard, particularly this last one, but if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you lost something – your best mate, or even a dog if we had one. For all your silences, you do wear your heart on your sleeve and that heart seems so full of sorrow right now. I’ve seen that look far too many times, laddie love, to not recognize the heart hurt for what it is. Lord love you, but you are your father’s son. 

I don’t think you remember him, now. You were such a wee lad when he died, barely more than four. I insisted on naming you for him, though he wanted to call you Oliver, after his own granddad. Cromwell’s curse will not touch my son, a true son of Ireland, I told your dad, sure as I was pushing you out of my own loins. Your dad, God rest him, reminded me that it had been nearly four hundred years since that fecking monster swept through our land and raped and pillaged as he pleased, no better than the Vikings a thousand years before. 

I think I chose well in my second marriage, at least. Though he isn’t your father, Dennis has done well, raising you these past ten years. Aye, you fight like hooligans after a football match, but at least you show him some regard. I know that neither of us has been home for you as we should, but at least Dennis has done more than his part in the raising of you. Your stepfather sees all your passions and sarcasm, that droll wit that you inherited from your dad. He can work through your frustrations and your feelings of inadequacies, particularly that chip you developed in the past year, in ways I only stuff up. Much like our own relationship. Sometimes I think I just receive the brunt of your frustrations and woes and anger. You’ll say, aye, Mam, I know, working again. Mothering Sunday? I’m off with the lads for footie that day, maybe another weekend… And when I hear those brush-offs and excuses, sometimes I think I deserve them.

I wonder if you thought we’d notice your absence last month. The way you’d been skulking about the house, avoiding eye contact and interaction with adults, ‘twas like living with a ghost. But, darling boy, we noticed. Not only did we notice, but we also rang all your friends, even that little Majella tart. The only reason we didn’t go to the police was because something deep within me – mother’s instinct, maybe – told me you were all right. Well, maybe not all right, but that, wherever you were, you were needed. 

And when you appear again after a fortnight, looking like Death himself, you just kiss my cheek and tell me I’m beautiful before slouching off to that dungeon you live in and sleeping for three days straight. Never mind the college calling, asking where you are. Never mind Dennis lying to them, claiming that a relative died and you needed some time to deal with everything. Never mind how sick I felt, knowing that you were out there somewhere, alone, maybe dead, for all I knew, and all I could think was that I hadn’t been there for you.

You’ve changed since then. I can see a weight lifted off those narrow shoulders of yours and a new lightness in your step. But there are times when you look over your shoulder and I wonder, what did you lose? Who did you lose, my boy, when you disappeared? Aye, we hear you talking more and more on your mobile now, to Dar and to Neets and ranting about some new bird Mela. I’ve seen the photos from the Mars rovers go up on your wall with your footie posters. But there’s still something missing that I think I’ve taken for granted this past year, and I wonder what phantom you’re still seeking, and if you’ll ever find it again.

We’ve not spoken of any of this. I can see the look in your eyes sometimes, as if you’re about to spill all the secrets of the universe. You hesitate, and then ask Dennis about the latest match against Scotland, and who will win the Ashes this year. I know that last summer was rough on you and something happened that added an old look to your eyes. Sometimes I wonder if I was seeing someone else in there beside my own baby boy. You were always a thoughtful one. Your dad used to joke about his son, the next great bard of Ireland. There’s bard blood on your dad’s side. He used to say that he was descended from Lugh himself. He bought you all of those fairytale books that you were so fond of, and that you still sneak a read from when you’re feeling particularly down about something. You think I don’t know you, baby boy, but I do. I carried you for nine months and more. The midwife had to break my bag of waters to jump-start my labor, you were so reluctant to leave. My little water baby, she called you, as you rushed into the world with the morning tide.

There are regrets I’ll always carry, because I am your mother, and that’s what mothers do. There are words I wish I could have said to you, promises that I wish I could break because it might help me reach you better. I will always remember that day your dad died, kneeling down beside you to tell you that Dad would not be coming home from his shift at the studios. That an accident happened while Dad was cleaning that night, and that we wouldn’t see Dad again for a long time. You looked at me with those dark, dark eyes of yours and I swear, those eyes burned right into my soul. Daddy will live forever in time’s heart, you told me, as solemn as a saint.

Sometimes I think you carry more than just your dad’s spirit as part of his legacy. Sometimes I wonder if something passed from him to you in his dying moment. You were so angry after that, and you would fly into such rages. Like him, you couldn’t bear to see the suffering and the injustice. Even as a wee one, you wanted to fix everything and make it right. You wanted to protect everyone from evil. When we were young and foolish and innocent, your dad admitted to the same desire: to protect everyone from the darkness. He wanted to be the light for this world. Someday, I’ll be able to tell you that he died the way he wanted to live, protecting others from a darkness that I hope you never have to imagine. Someday, I hope I’ll be able to tell you about the wonders he saw in his fight against the darkness, and how he waits in time’s heart for you, to tell you how proud he is of you.

After your dad died, you invented an imaginary friend for yourself. She was a great red parrot that you called Peaches. You said that she told you stories at night, stories that your dad used to tell you about Lugh and Moytura and the great battles your illustrious many-greats grandfather fought, in Ireland’s golden age. Peaches carried on your dad’s tradition of lulling you to sleep, inspiring you to do better and dream bigger. Even into your tenth year, you swore she spoke to you when you needed her. She quelled your anger when I thought you were going to get yourself kicked out of primary school for all those fights and those cruel, biting words you would use on your classmates. She acted as your mother when I couldn’t, because I was too busy trying to protect you.

But even Peaches left you in the end. You grew into your teens and you became so quiet around the house. Sometimes you would disappear for hours or a day, and you would come back, battered as if the sea itself had tried to steal you away and you fought your way back all the way to shore. Dennis couldn’t reach you, for all that he tried. The school counselor ‘had words’ with all three of us and the fights stopped, for all your mouth didn’t. Oh, you could be cruel, laddie love. That, you inherited from me. But the fighting was always in the name of someone smaller and weaker and hurt. You always used your fists and words in combat against bullies, always in the name of protection. My water baby grew into a fierce warrior, and oh, your dad would have been proud.

And so we stare at each other across the table, drinking our tea. Neither of us is sure what to say to the other. I’ve noticed you moping about, looking as if you lost Peaches all over again. There’s a quiet to you now, and a new-found sense of peace, but you seem to regret it, somehow. That same voice, deep in my heart, tells me that you’ll be okay in the end. It’s the same voice that tells me that you’ll understand about your dad and the choice he made years ago. That you would forgive him for the oath he forswore. That you, of all people, would realize that sometimes you have to make a sacrifice, especially if it’s in the great fight against the darkness.

Somewhere, in the past seventeen years, my little seal has grown into a champion. The pup, now a man grown, doesn’t need his mother any more. I know I’ve failed you more than once, these past few years, but I still can’t bring myself to tell you. What would you think of me, of your dad, if I admitted what he had been involved in? If you knew that your dad was some barmy magic user who foolishly gave up his life – his magic – for people he’d never met?

You deserve better than this, Ronan. So much better. For all I tried to thwart the black curse of Cromwell from your soul at birth, sometimes I wonder if giving you a different name was protection enough. We all know the power of a name, and the power of intent. Maybe someday, when we’ve both buried our demons, we can finally have that talk that we need to. Someday, I’ll tell you about your dad’s true legacy, and hopefully you’ll tell me about the Choice you made as well.


End file.
